


Things Held Close

by Tofutti



Series: wish we were home now [3]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Temporary Character Death, basically just, what if Wilbur's Pogtopia jacket used to be Phil's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 09:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30002859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofutti/pseuds/Tofutti
Summary: Wilbur carries nothing more than a single bag with him when he moves to the Dream SMP. It's packed full of all sorts of things, though: maps, sweaters, notebooks and pens. A gifted book. An old photo. An enchanted coat, folded into a careful square.Or: the story of Wilbur's jacket, and all that comes with it.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: wish we were home now [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184786
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Things Held Close

It’s difficult, Wilbur finds, to pack. 

It’s not that he has a lot of things; he’s never been materialistic in any respect. It’s also not that he’s sad about leaving the house or never sleeping in this bed again. He’s moved plenty of times, what with his tendency for wandering and a survivalist for a father. 

It’s more that everything he picks up—the maps off his wall, the pens off his desk, an old photo of Tommy and him from his bedside, his beanie from the hook on his door—leaves a void in its place, cold and empty and definite. It’s more that Tommy has left, and Techno has left, and Phil is staying, and despite knowing he’s on his way to meet his littlest brother, the thought of the house laying still and quiet haunts his every movement. He doesn’t know how long it’ll be before he comes back. Phil says he’s not ready to leave this home just yet, but Wilbur knows that he’ll have moved by the time they meet again. 

In truth, the house had already felt wrong for weeks, too cold and skeletal. Each room felt too big without Techno’s constant, calm presence somewhere down the hall. Tommy’s volume left long silences in his wake. Many an afternoon, Wilbur found his ears aching from the quiet. Despite knowing that Phil is just as capable of thriving in solitude as Wilbur is with a crowd of people around him, it still feels wrong to leave him alone. 

He knows he has to, though. He’d go crazy if he stayed here any longer. It’s time for him to leave the empty, echoing halls of the years since Earth behind. So he packs. 

Flinging open his closet door, he holds up the lantern from his desk, squinting. There’s not much inside beyond a pile of thin sweaters, stacked on a shelf, and a pair of jeans. Tommy must have taken those borrowed outfits with him, the little shit. Wilbur sighs. It’s fine, he’ll just get new stuff once he’s there. It’ll be fine. 

It’s fine. 

He grabs the sweaters and jeans and turns around, scanning his room. The yellow walls look bare and blank without the maps. He ignores it. 

Two things left—his books and his guitar. He packs the guitar into its case first, securing it tight and careful for the long trip ahead of it. Then, he turns to the bookcase. 

Wilbur doesn’t have many books. They’re impractical to transport in large volumes, especially when travelling with one bag. Each time he stays put for a while, he amasses a bit of a collection and ends up having to leave a few behind. This time, he selects as many as he can carry with the space left in his bag. Off the shelf comes his favorite political science book, a thick read on historical revolutions, a sociology textbook, and Technoblade’s gifted copy of  _ The Art of War _ . The bag closes with some difficulty after them. Wilbur hoists it up, slings it over his back, and grabs his guitar. Stepping into the hallway, he gives his room one last once-over.

Empty, cold, quiet, just like the rest of the house. Wilbur is ready to go. 

Through the corridor he goes, past Phil’s collection of family photos. Down the stairwell, into the entryway. The room is open and high-ceilinged, windows scraping the cornice and bathing everything in dawn’s first breaths of life. 

Phil is waiting for him. He’s leaned against the wall by the door, hair a mess, still in his robe. He smiles past tired eyes when Wilbur walks in, spreading his arms wide. 

Wilbur lets out his breath, setting down his guitar and sinking into his father’s arms. The embrace is warm and close and wonderful, and Will soaks it in, holding this moment close. 

_ This is how it feels,  _ he tells himself,  _ when Dad hugs you _ . He hopes he can remember. 

“Phil,” Wilbur mutters. “I said you didn’t have to get up this morning. We said goodbye last night.”

“No,” Phil says, “I had to. I needed to see you off. I know it’s important to you.” He pulls away, holding Wilbur at arm’s length. “Oh, Will… is that what you’re wearing?” 

“Huh?” Wilbur looks down at his outfit. It’s nothing special: white t-shirt, black jacket, a random pair of pants. “What do you mean?”

“You’re gonna get cold, mate.” Phil huffs, grinning. “Hey, wait here. I’ve got something for you.”

“...Okay?” Wilbur watches, puzzled, as Phil hurries up the stairs, disappearing into his room. He emerges a moment later, something folded in his arms. 

“Alright, let’s see if this fits.” Phil chuckles, hopping down the stairs and standing before Wilbur. He unfurls what he’s holding.

It’s a worn jacket, khaki-grey and patched in places. Old and calf-length, different from Wilbur’s usual style, but something he thinks he’d enjoy wearing.

“Here,” Phil says, handing it over. Wilbur takes it, running his hands over the soft fabric. “In case you need it. Go ahead and try it.”

Wilbur sheds the jacket he’s already wearing, pulling the new one on. It’s a little snug around the sleeves, sagging where holes for wings have been cut into it, and it only reaches to his knees, but it’s comfortable. He grins. “Where did you get this?” 

“Oh, Prime, I don’t know.” Phil laughs. “I’ve had that thing for  _ years. _ Probably since before you were born. Used to wear it all the time, stopped using it a little while before I met Techno, I think. It got me through some bad snowstorms. It’s hard to pack warm clothes when you’re traveling as much as I was.” He nods towards the coat. “Check the inner seam.”

Wilbur pulls it off, folding it open and squinting at the fabric. Along the seam, Galactic lettering, stitched in careful hand, shimmers purple

“It’s enchanted,” Wilbur realizes. Phil hums. “What does it say?”

“Hell if I know, I can’t read Galactic.” Phil chuckles. “It’s a protection enchantment, though, one for temperature. You don’t have to worry about the weather when you’re wearing that thing. Like magic insulation, almost.”

Suddenly, the coat in Wilbur’s hands feels heavier. “Are you sure I can have this?” He folds it with reverence, tucking in the sleeves and creasing the fabric until it sits in a tiny square. “Phil, I’ve still got all my lives…” 

Unspoken in the space between them is the nature of his father’s life, the pin he wears with pride as evidence of the choice he’d made years ago.

“Take it.” Phil clasps Wilbur’s hands in his, wrapping them tighter around the jacket. “I know what I’m doing. You’re my  _ son _ , and I want you to have it.” He stares up into Wilbur’s eyes, gaze soft. “Those lives of yours are valuable, and easy to lose. Be careful.”

Wilbur swallows past the lump in his throat, setting the jacket on the side table and wrapping Phil in a hug. He holds his father close, fisting his hands in the back of Phil’s robe. 

“Phil,” he whispers. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Phil assures him. “I’ve been on my own plenty before, remember?”

Will exhales. “Yes.” He pulls away, rubbing his eyes. “I’m just worried, you know?”

“Of course,” Phil says. “I feel the same way.”

Wilbur huffs. He’s right: parting ways is an act of trust for both parties. 

“Fine,” he says. 

Phil grins. “Take care of Tommy for me, will ya?” he says. “Make sure he doesn’t murder someone.”

Wilbur laughs. “Oh, Prime. If I spend too much time with that child,  _ I  _ might murder  _ him _ .” He turns to his bag, pulling out his beanie and putting it on. He grabs the jacket for the table, tucking it in against the wad of maps and wresting the bag shut. He sits back on his heels once he’s done, staring at his bag and case instead of his father.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to come?” he asks. 

Phil chuckles. Wilbur turns to look at him. 

“And you’re sure you don’t want another hug?” Phil retorts, raising an eyebrow, and Wilbur sighs.

“Alright, alright,” he says, slinging his bag over his back and picking up his guitar. He meets Phil’s eyes. He looks more confident in Wilbur than Wilbur is; after a moment, he nods. 

“You’ll do great, Will,” he says. “I know it.”

Wilbur blinks past the sudden wetness in his eyes, nodding back. “Thanks, Dad,” he says. Then, he turns around, opens the door, and walks down the steps, one foot in front of the other.

“Oh, and Will?” Phil calls after him. Wilbur turns back. Phil’s stuck his head out the door, grinning. “I love you!”

Wilbur laughs, breathless in the chilly morning. “I love you too,” he says. “Thank you. For everything.”

* * *

“I really am a mess,” Wilbur comments to Tommy one lazy afternoon a few days after they’ve won their independence. He’s in the process of pulling notebook after notebook out of his ender chest, laying them in a scattered pile beside him. All are filled with scribbles of nonsense, discarded ideas and distracted ramblings, self-assurances and crippling fears. He did a lot of aimless writing during the war in an attempt to keep himself sane, dumping the quickly filling journals into his ender chest for safekeeping. Now that the war is won, he doesn’t have to worry about keeping near as many secrets, and he can afford to put them on a shelf somewhere maybe, or dump them in a chest. He hasn’t quite figured out what to do with them yet. Mostly he just wants to get organized. 

Tommy only grunts in response, shifting where he lays in one of the camarvan’s bunks. Wilbur’s heart aches for the boy: he knows how much Tommy hates to be still. Wilbur and the others have been trying to keep him company the best they can as he recovers. The deaths that stick are always the worst, and Tommy’s just had two in quick succession. Wilbur himself slept for a full day after Eret’s betrayal. It’s telling that Tommy hasn’t even managed to get up since his adrenaline crash after signing the constitution. 

“You know, you really are no help,” Wilbur comments, pulling out the last of the books and balancing it atop a teetering tower. “You could at least be good company.”

Tommy groans, pulling the sheet over his head. “Stoppit,” he mutters into the pillow.

Wilbur laughs. “Okay, then. I see how it is. I’ll stop talking, jeez.” He turns back to the ender chest. 

As he scans it to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, something dark catches his eye, buried under a pile of iron ingots and a wad of letters from Techno. He grabs it, pulling it out and nearly knocking some of the iron over the rim. 

It’s Phil’s old coat. Wibur almost forgot he had it. He grins, laying it in his lap and smoothing it out. He has no need for it now—L’manberg stays at a nice, manageable temperature, and he’s happy in just his lightweight uniform—but it’s good to hold something so obviously  _ Phil _ again. 

The coat  _ was  _ Phil’s, but it’s also Wilbur’s now, something of a meeting point between the two of them. It’s something Phil has passed forward, something beautiful that Phil called his, that he took and told Wilbur to make it his own. It’s poetic, and soft, and maybe Wilbur still hasn’t caught up on sleep from his own respawn, because he’s being ridiculously sappy right now. All the same, he feels a sudden urge to  _ make  _ it his own, to find that meeting point. He’s pretty sure he left his sewing kit in here somewhere…

It doesn’t take Wilbur long to stitch the L’manberg patch onto the sleeve. He’s got a few spare patches left over, and a needle and thread makes quick work of the job. He holds it up once he’s done, smiling at the sight. His father’s old coat, a legacy of tenacious survival, passed down to Wilbur; Wilbur’s own proclamation of persistence, the bright flag a proud display of the country he fought tooth and nail to keep alive. It’s fitting, he thinks: Phil gave Wilbur more than just a coat, and Wilbur made more of these gifts than he was given. 

He looks over at Tommy, snoring, bundled up in pink bedsheets. He can hear Fundy and Tubbo screaming nonsense about something or another at each other outside, and knows that it’s something beautiful he’s built here, something worth every tear he’s shed for it. 

The coat goes back in the ender chest. Maybe he’ll need it someday, but for now, it’s enough to simply hold it close.

* * *

The ravine is cold. Wilbur’s glad they’ve dug into it—it’s better than a dirt hole—but the air eats like ice at his bones, the stone chilling under him where he sits, waiting for Tommy to return. 

_ Pogtopia _ , Tommy had dubbed it. It’s a stupid name for a stupid place but Wilbur can’t bring himself to care. It was worth the grin on Tommy’s face when he relented, anyway. 

Wilbur shivers, pulling the thin fabric of his uniform tighter around himself. He doesn’t really have anything to do: he’s already lit the whole place best he can with what torches he has, and he can’t be bothered to mine more coal, not while he’s still shaky from his recent respawn. 

_ It’s the ones that stick that are always the worst. _ A lesson learned twice over. Wilbur wants nothing more now than to set his head down and sleep, let the darkness that’s swimming in blotches in front of his eyes swallow him whole, but he can’t. He’ll freeze. He rubs his hands together, breathing against his numbing fingers. 

Tommy had better get back with that ender chest soon or Wilbur’s going to die all over again. He doesn’t even remember if he got a chance to sit down in the bed Tommy made by the entrance. If he respawns in L’manberg, he’s done.

_ L’manberg. Holy fuck.  _ Schlatt’s betrayal stings sharp in his chest like a lightning strike, drowned out only by the following wave of loneliness. It’s silent. It hasn’t been this kind of silent since L’manberg’s founding, most days being spent inside the life-filled walls. 

Pogtopia is  _ silent _ . Pogtopia is  _ cold _ . Another chill sends shockwaves of ice through Wilbur’s body, and he shudders, hunching in on himself.

Wilbur wants to go home. He isn’t sure what that means anymore. 

He thinks maybe it’d be nice to lay down in one of the camarvan’s bunks. Or by L’manberg’s lake. Maybe even in his wooden ball, long since flooded. 

Or in Phil’s arms. What he would give for one of Phil’s hugs, warm and soft and safe. Right now, even with nothing, maybe Phil would make things alright. He’d know what to do.

Or maybe just here. It’d be nice to drift away…

Tommy needs to hurry up.

A while later—Wilbur doesn’t know how long, doesn’t keep track—footsteps echo against the walls of the ravine, and he wrenches himself upright, joints aching where they’d locked into place from the cold. He scrambles to his feet. If that’s one of Schlatt’s lackeys—if he’s attacked—he doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Wilbur! I’m back!” Tommy’s shout comes, and he sighs. 

“Did you get the ender chest?” he calls, ignoring how shaky his voice is. 

A moment later—“Yeah!”

“Alright.” Wilbur fists his hands in his uniform, trying to get his fingers to work properly again. “Can you bring it down?”

“I already set it up here!” Tommy shouts back. “Come up and get it yourself!” 

Wilbur growls under his breath.  _ Awful child. _ He stumbles over to the staircase, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. He takes the steps one at a time, careful not to fall, taking a moment on each to still his shaking legs. 

He finally emerges into the entry room after an ordeal of a walk. Tommy’s cramming pork into a furnace, stoking the fire. Wilbur half-throws himself at the ender chest, wrenching the lid open. He must have landed pretty hard—not that he could really feel it—because Tommy turns around at the sound. 

“Wilbur—” He frowns. “Are you alright?” 

Wilbur huffs, clawing through the contents of his ender chest with trembling fingers. He digs past a few gold bars, some empty bottles, an old crossbow— _ there _ . Mousy grey, worn and soft. He pulls out Phil’s old coat, inspecting it. It looks the same as the day he got it, patchy and rough and perfect. 

“What is that?” Tommy asks. Wilbur throws off his uniform jacket, wadding it up and dumping it in his ender chest in the coat’s place. 

“Will—Will, are you okay?” Tommy grabs his shaking hand. It must be cold, because he flinches, shock seeping into his face. Wilbur tries to meet his eyes but finds his gaze won’t focus. “Wilbur—”

He shakes off Tommy’s grasp, unfolding the coat with a snap and pulling it on, shivering as warmth instantly seeps into his bones. He sighs, sinking to the floor. The fabric is soft, unbelievably so. It feels like—

It feels like Phil, like one of his hugs. Even smells like him. Wilbur closes his eyes, wrapping the jacket tighter and melting into the dirt floor.

He’s so tired, he realizes. He’s so, so tired. There’s weight in his every inch. He doesn’t want to fight it. He doesn’t think he could if he tried. 

Hands are on his face. He blinks his eyes open to Tommy’s blurry face. 

Tommy… Tommy was worried, wasn’t he? Wilbur should… Wilbur should get up. Tell Tommy he’s okay. Help him set up the ravine…

The ravine was cold. Wilbur doesn’t want to go back there. But he’s warm now. That means he can sleep. 

Tommy is back, and Wilbur is warm, and Phil is here, now. He’s giving Wilbur a hug. It’s nice and gentle. He’s wrapped in midnight black feathers, the way Phil used to hold him. Before...

Wilbur sinks.

* * *

It’s midnight, and Tommy’s still crying.

He’s curled up on his bed, arms hugged tight to himself. It’s kind of concerning that he’s still upset, but there’s no time to think about that. Tommy is also wearing a jacket, and Ghostbur is busy wondering about it. 

It has occupied his thoughts ever since Tommy pulled it out of his new ender chest earlier. It’s familiar to him in a way few material items are. Phil gave it to him, Ghostbur is pretty sure, when Alivebur went to chase his dreams. And he thinks he was wearing it when Phil killed Alivebur, but he isn’t sure about that one. 

He doesn’t know how Tommy got it. It was in Tommy’s ender chest, somehow. Ghostbur almost wants to ask for it back—it’s a pretty nice coat—but he doesn’t want to interrupt. He tried to give him blue earlier and got snapped at for it. 

If he could talk to Tommy right now, he’d also probably tell him to go to sleep. It’s night, which means Tommy should be resting. Ghostbur isn’t—ghosts don’t need sleep—but Tommy is a teenager, not a ghost, and he hasn’t been getting enough. 

Maybe Tommy can’t sleep because he’s cold. With the stars comes a chill, seeping and frosty, and though it doesn’t much bother Ghostbur, he’d spent all of last night watching Tommy shiver in his fitful, shallow rest, helpless.

There isn’t too much Ghostbur remembers about the jacket. It was Alivebur’s, after all. But he knows it’s warm. And he’s pretty sure it felt like a hug once.

Ghostbur isn’t a very good hug-giver. He’s been told his hugs are “cold”, “unnerving”, “tickly”, and, on one memorable occasion, “fucking awful”. He wishes he could give Tommy one—a good one, like Alivebur could. But he can’t. 

He does kind of want the coat back, no matter how little he tends to care for material things. It’s wonderfully tangible.  _ Hey _ , it seems to whisper,  _ maybe Phil loved Alivebur, too _ . But Phil isn’t here to give Tommy hugs right now, either.

He thinks maybe he’s glad Tommy had it in his ender chest. It wouldn’t look very good with Ghostbur’s sweater, anyway, and Tommy seems to like it a whole lot.

* * *

There’s something in the ruins of L’manberg. 

Philza has returned the day after L’manberg’s fourth and final fall to survey the ruins. True to his word, Dream stopped by last night and finished the job. Bedrock’s jagged landscape stares up at him from the place L’manberg’s heart once sat. 

But there’s also something there, almost like it’s waiting for him. It’s tattered and ashy and small, somehow familiar. It catches Phil’s eye, somehow, despite being nearly the same color of the stone. He drops over the cliff and down onto the ledge it’s caught on, the tattered remains of his wings carrying his weight long enough for him to land softly. It only takes a quick glance to locate what he’d seen.

Snagged on a knife of rock lies a jacket, greyish in color and half-burnt. Phil kneels in front of it, inspecting the fabric. 

He recognizes it, even in its ruined state, even with the addition of a patch in the pattern of L’manberg’s flag. It’s his old coat, the one he gave to Will. Phil lifts its remains from the stone, turning it over. The embroidered enchantment is dull and still, and he sighs. 

Phil runs his hands over the collar, laying it flat. It feels as though he’s preparing it for burial. 

That’s an unpleasant analogy, he realizes, in the wake of the recent funeral. Friend’s corpse had disappeared—the only casualty—but Wilbur insisted on having a ceremony anyway. Phil was not invited.

He blinks past a prickling in his eyes. His last gift to Wilbur before death would not receive the same fate. It didn’t need burial, it was still… it was still fine. Perfectly intact. 

The destroyed coat screams,  _ was it worth it? _

“Yes.” Phil grits his teeth. Thinking of a diamond hilt in his hands, thinking of a home that brought only death, he says, “Yes, it was.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
